


A Regularly Scheduled Flight

by simplifyingforces (vigorousplasmids)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU - Comicverse, Superman (Comics)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vigorousplasmids/pseuds/simplifyingforces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Superman's always in the right place at the right time.  Batman doesn't know how to feel about this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a relationship based on good sense and thoughtfulness in little things

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is taken from Robert Hershon's [Superbly Situated](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179255), which just screams Bruce/Clark to me. The fic as a whole partly grew from the poem as well, although I'll probably veer off path at some point (if I haven't already).
> 
> This story doesn't really follow any particular comics canon or timeline, although it does include elements of canon within it. You definitely don't need to be familiar with any material to read.

The Elliott Building, which now sits in the heart of what is not-quite-affectionately called Old Gotham, was built in 1884 through the funding of Edward Elliott, one of the esteemed founders of modern-day Gotham City.  It was a model of Gothic Revival architecture, rising majestically into a sky that would soon become crowded with an overabundance of similarly designed buildings, fighting for a sliver of sunlight that never filtered down to the masses below.  The ribbed vaults of dark stone reached into a darkness that hid its elegantly pointed arches, the stained glass along each wall beautifully warped by time.  The slate tile floor had been methodically cared for since its placement on the uppermost level, with countless gray tones that flecked and swirled across its surface.

It was upon this exquisite slate tile floor that the Batman was now laying, knocked out cold.

From the vantage point of the night watchmen cowering behind a large potted plant directly across from the anachronistic modern steel elevator, it appeared as if the man was dead.  Shards of glass were embedded in the black cape that lay twisted around him, glittering in the moonlight that filtered down from the window through which the Dark Knight had fallen.  The bottom half of his face looked deathly pale in the moon’s ethereal glow; a smear of blood ghosted across his lips, unnaturally bright against his deathly pallor.

After a span of a freakishly accurate timing of five full minutes in which the Batman had neither moved nor been approached by any other living being, the night watchman crept towards the figure.  The broken glass seemed to crunch so loudly under his feet that he thought ridiculously for a moment that if he turned towards the darkness at the end of the hallway, he would see the Joker staring back at him, eating a bag of chips, maybe.  _Sounds like something that sick bastard would do, watching the Batman’s death like it’s some kind of show_ , he thought to himself disgustedly, until he realized the ludicrousness of this entire line of thought.  Shaking his head, he tiptoed closer to the fallen figure ringed by moonlight, seemingly placed at that exact spot as some sort of bizarre display.

As he came close enough to the Batman to touch him, he was stunned to see that the unnaturally red blood was not blood at all, but face paint.  Face paint that reminded him distinctly of the warnings so often given on the local ten o’clock news about—

“Joker!”

The night watchmen flew back at the sound, slipping on the shattered glass and falling with a loud clatter.  He immediately felt a sharp pain in his hands and drew them up with horror, seeing the shards like pinpricks on his skin; blood dripping down his wrists and into his jacket cuffs.  _I’m not here for this shit, man.  Twelve bucks an hour is not enough to put up with this sh—SHIT!_   He looked up suddenly as a shadow crossed over his bleeding palms.

“Are you alright?” the shadow asked.

The night watchmen looked up into the shadow, realizing that it wasn’t a shadow at all, but a dazzling display of color and light.

“S-superman?” he squeaked.  “But this is Gotham!”

The man, if you could call him that, looked down at him concernedly.  “You need medical attention.  Can you make your way down to the first floor on your own?  There are paramedics waiting.”

“Uh, yeah.  I can do that,” he replied cautiously.  “Do you…need a statement or something?” he asked before he could stop himself.  _Idiot!  Superman’s not the GCPD.  Get out of here before anyone knows you saw anything.  You know that’s the only way to survive in Gotham._   Before he could consider this line of thought further, he realized that Superman had already started responding to his question.

“—anything worth seeing?”

“What?  Oh!  Oh, nah man.  I mean, I just went to see if Batman was alright after he crashed through the window.  Gave me a hell of a scare.  Thought he might’ve died or something, y’know?”  He paused for a second, gauged Superman’s neutral expression and continued.  “Right when I came up on him was when you showed up, so I really got nothin’.  I mean, he looks like he got Jokered—“ he made a quick slicing gesture over his lips, “but I’m sure you’d know that better than me.  I’ll just let you do your Justice League thing.” 

He stood up and began to walk slowly to the elevator before turning to face the superhero, standing slightly out of the moonlight that still washed over the deathly still Batman.  At that moment, the night watchman felt the first sense of unease since the Man of Steel had arrived.  For the first time, he realized that despite all his incredible strength, Superman was just like any other man who had to see someone he cared about in pain -- sad, worried, and more than a little tired. 

“Hey man,” he called from down the hall, bringing the hero out of his reverie, “if you don’t need anything from me or anyone else around here, what’re you waiting for?  Take the man to the superhero hospital or something.  Gotham can’t go too long without him.”

He turned to the elevator and pushed the down button, wincing at the glass still stuck in his palms.  In the thirty seconds it took for the elevator to reach the penthouse level, he didn’t look back.

It wouldn’t have mattered; the heroes were gone, leaving nothing behind but glittering glass and moonlight in their wake.

 

* * *

In the time it took for Superman to conclude his seemingly never ending conversation with the night watchman, Batman had woken up and mentally catalogued a rough estimation of his injuries.  _Nothing serious, of course.  A few surface injuries and a concussion, most likely._   Before he could inform Clark of this fact, however, the man had already picked him up in his arms and begun flying out the broken window.  The man was disturbingly fast; it was frustrating beyond belief.  To his surprise, instead of voicing this frustration and demanding to be put down, he had begun to drowse off in the warmth that radiated from Superman’s body, his mental injury catalog blending into some unintelligible dreamland.

Suddenly, he was jerked awake by the cool blast from a sharp updraft of wind.  Bright blue and red flashed in the corners of his vision, a sound like a whip crack echoed by his left ear.  He opened his eyes and moved his head sharply. 

“Superman,” he stated coldly.

“Batman,” the alien replied blandly.  “Go to sleep; you’re badly hurt.  I’d hate to have to tell Alfred that you’ve been fighting with me at the expense of your own health.  We’ll be at the manor soon enough.”

Before Batman could muddle through his own drowsy thoughts and pain to respond, Superman spoke again, his chest vibrating gently against Bruce’s side, oddly comforting in a way Bruce didn’t want to contemplate further.

“Never mind, we’re already here.  Must’ve flown a bit faster than I’d thought.”  The man sped through one of the cave’s entrances that had never been shown to him before, irritating Bruce to the point of bringing him out of his dreamlike state.

“Superman,” he stated with as much authority as he could muster while being held like a baby in the man’s arms, “what are you doing here?”

Superman set Batman down perfunctorily on a medbay and hit a button on the Batcomputer’s console to call Alfred before turning back to face Batman, his cool exterior belied by eyes full of concern.

“Kent, if you don’t explain what you’re doing in Gotham in the next ten seconds, I’ll be forced to activate a protocol,” Batman stated with steely reserve as he slowly peeled off the cowl.

“Bruce, you may view your own interpersonal relationships as an unfortunate side effect of accomplishing your mission, but the fact of the matter is that your skills and your expertise are valuable to the League.  Countless encounters around the world against seemingly insurmountable forces have been successful due directly to your work—“

Bruce interrupted harshly, his face eerily angry in light of the bright red smile painted across his lips.  “None of this explains why you’re in Gotham with me right now, Superman.  The work I do in Gotham is my own.  When the League needs me, you know I’ll be there in my most efficient capacity.  You don’t need to come by to extol my virtues on your off time.”

The sound of the entrance to the cave opening at the top of the stairs sounded distantly as the two men glared at each other.

“Bruce,” Clark sighed.  “You were in trouble.  I don’t know what kind of business you’re trying to stop this time in Gotham, but no one’s heard from you in days.  Nightwing _and_ Oracle contacted me to see if I could find out what you were up to.  Luckily, I showed up when I did, or who knows—“

“I’ve gotten myself out of plenty of scrapes before without your interference, Superman.  If I need you, I’ll call you.  Don’t waste your energy or your time coming to check on me.  I don’t need to be looked after by the people I trained, and I don’t need colleagues using personal time better spent elsewhere to deal with work-related matters.” 

Superman’s eyes widened as Alfred made his way to the medbay.  “Bruce, you can’t – oh hello, Alfred – you can’t seriously think that your safety and well-being is solely an occupational issue to be dealt with.  Barbara and Dick _care_ about you!  _I care_ …” he broke off suddenly into silence, glancing around the cave at the solitary world Bruce had meticulously built around himself over the years.  After a moment, he consciously slid his eyes to Bruce, who had remained silent in the wake of Clark’s confession.  He looked dully at Clark as Alfred grabbed a medical wipe to clean his face, as if waiting for Clark’s full attention.  Clark took a deep breath.

“Look, Bruce.  We’ve been…colleagues…for at least five years now—“

“Six years, three months, and twenty-three days,” Bruce interrupted calmly, scrubbing his face with the wipe.  The bright red paint bled into the cloth profusely, yet a dark faded mark remained visible on his pale skin.  Clark felt a sudden overwhelming need to use his superhuman abilities to force it off his face.

“Uh, right,” he replied, gathering his bearings as Bruce continued to scrub.  “Anyway, that seems like a fair amount of time in which we would have developed some sort of personal relationship that extends past colleagues, wouldn’t it?”  Clark looked expectantly at his oldest ally.  Bruce continued to stare back silently.  He had stopped scrubbing, his face slightly pink and raw, yet still dyed a dull maroon across his now puffy lips.  His hair was ruffled and slightly damp, giving the effect of having spent the sort of night Bruce Wayne was expected to have, rather than the one he actually did.  The effect was surprisingly more disturbing, yet somehow sensual.  Clark didn’t like thinking about Batman and sensual in the same sentence.  Something about it just seemed…off, somehow.

“Well, I mean…it’s just that…”  Clark drifted off mid-sentence, staring into space.  Suddenly, he banged his hand on the medbay, startling no one but himself.  Bruce looked as creepily composed as he had for the past five minutes, and Alfred, unflappable to the extreme, continued his methodical assessment of Bruce’s injuries.

“Damnit, Bruce!  What I’m trying to say is that it shouldn’t be so difficult to tell you that I care about you as a person and that I…wouldlikeitifwecouldbefriends,” Clark finished in a rush.  Bruce continued to stare at him dispassionately; _most likely calculating the pros and cons of friendship and its impact on his mission_ , Clark thought, with a hint of bitterness.

After a moment of staring that had become increasingly uncomfortable for Clark, but apparently unnoticed by Bruce, the man finally decided to speak.

“Superman.  I...,” he stated before pausing.  He seemed to have difficulty looking directly at Clark as he spoke.  After a moment of what almost looked like nervous fidgeting, he continued, “…I appreciate your concern.  I value partnership and collaboration as much as the next man.  However, I cannot allow myself to become emotionally attached to colleagues in this line of work.  I’m sure you understand.” 

He turned abruptly towards Alfred.  “Are we ready for phase two diagnostics?”  Alfred nodded and headed out of the medbay toward the Batcomputer.  Bruce turned back towards Clark, who was standing in silence, as if waiting for Bruce to address him further.

“You can see yourself out.  I’ll contact you when I’m in operable condition for League missions.”  He then turned and slowly made his way toward the Batcomputer.

“Bruce.”

Clark’s voice, so capable of carrying across any earthly boundary, sounded tinny and strange as it echoed through the cave.  Bruce turned back sharply, surprised at its foreignness.  Clark’s astonished eyes stared back at him searchingly before continuing.

“You can’t be serious.  After all we’ve been through...after tonight!  You were out cold in a sea of broken glass for over five minutes with no one but a rent-a-cop for backup.  If I hadn’t been there, who knows what rogue would have found you!”

Bruce turned again, eyes hard and glinting.  “If you’re expecting a thank you for tonight, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

Clark’s face quickly shifted from incredulity to anger.  “Okay, Batman; if that’s how you need it to be.  Forget any mention of our relationship beyond our convenient partnership in the greater service of justice.  I will inform the Justice League of your operational status.”  He turned abruptly and flew out of the entrance by which they had arrived together mere moments before, but Batman had already turned away.

By the time Alfred had finished documenting Bruce’s injuries, it felt as if no one else had been in the cave at all.


	2. i wouldn’t mind if somehow i became entangled in your perception of admirable objects

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few references to scenes/details from recent comic issues in here, most notably Bruce's fall in Batman #11 and his adorable coffee mug in Legends of the Dark Knight #2 (2012).

The black figure falling from the sky over downtown Gotham would have appeared to most people as almost graceful in its fatal descent.  In truth, it was brimming with rage.  Destroying the Batplane only a month after the fiasco at the Elliott Building was not acceptable for any operative, especially not Batman.  He should have been aware of the malfunction, but he’d been _distracted_ ever since his encounter with Superman. 

The man, as always, had pushed him too far, too fast, and now there was nothing to show for it but anger and silence.  They hadn’t partnered on anything since that day, and Bruce knew he wasn’t alone in avoiding spending time at the Watchtower.  The plane malfunction was just another item to add to the list of things Superman had facilitated by his insatiable need for companionship.

Sensing himself being overtaken by his anger to the point of incompetence, he breathed deeply and focused inward as he plummeted ever closer to the glimmering lights of the city.  There was nothing to do but wait until he was low enough to grapple onto something.  His intent was to focus on nothing but the next plan, but seeing Gotham laid out beneath him so beautifully changed his focus entirely, as she had a tendency to do.  Without warning, an odd sense of calm overtook him, almost as if Gotham were radiating love up from its architecture. 

It felt like home.

He instinctively thought of Dick, the stoic and sad boy he had taken in when he had seen such pain he’d never thought he’d see other than by looking in the mirror.  In the midst of freefall, he closed his eyes to the city and focused on that moment, when Dick had seemed so small and fragile and pale.  He remembered himself, awkwardly trying to fit together the broken pieces of his own life into the gaping holes Dick’s loving parents had once filled.  God, how much of a failure he’d been.

As the wind rushed through him, screaming in his ears, he thought of how the boy had quickly transformed, determinedly stuffing the gaps between Bruce Wayne, Batman, and John and Mary Grayson with his own boundless love.  Robin, the Boy Wonder, flipping and careening through life, a veritable explosion.  He had been so unlike Bruce at that age, and so soon after the tragedy.  Rather than be bitter, Bruce had been incredibly relieved.  From the first day he had seen the boy truly smile, Bruce was so happy, he surprised himself.  He reveled in Dick’s happiness, leaping out at him through empty manor halls and whistling gunfire.

Dick was— _whump!_

“What are you _doing_?!” an incredulous voice called from somewhere in the immediate vicinity.

Bruce opened his eyes, sharply focusing on the fact that although the wind was still stinging and brisk across his body, he no longer seemed to be falling.

“Superman,” he stated blandly, “how nice of you to stop by.”

He looked up at the imposing figure holding him at the juncture where cape met cowl, appearing for all intents and purposes to be handling Bruce like a wayward puppy.

“Looks like I showed up just in time,” Superman replied grimly.  “Were you just going to let yourself splatter all over the pavement?  Or were you looking for a meeting?  You know, we haven’t gotten a chance to speak since our last little get-together at the Elliott Building over a month ago.”

The man seemed unusually perturbed, as if Bruce had done _him_ some personal slight by blowing up the Batplane.  He looked at the Man of Steel exasperatedly.

“I didn’t think I’d have to tell you this this late in the game, but not everything is about you.  If you’re done showing off for the locals, you can drop me off at the next convenient skyscraper,” Bruce replied.  Superman looked even more irritated by the response, taking the opportunity to go as slowly as possible towards Wayne Tower.

After a prolonged and awkward silence, Bruce hissed, “What is it that you want, Superman?  I just had an unforgivable malfunction with the Batplane and there’s a lot left to do tonight in Gotham.  If this is about our current working relationship, then yes, I’m tired of the passive aggressive angst-fest every time we’re both in the Watchtower; it’s affecting team efficiency levels.”

Superman stared back at him incredulously.  “You really are _unbelievable_ , you know?”  At Batman’s non-response, he dropped the man brusquely on the roof.

“When you’re done patrolling tonight, I want to talk.  Face to face, as Bruce and Clark.”

Before Batman could growl out a response, Superman took on a tone of voice that sounded suspiciously like the one he reserved for government employees, “This conversation is essential to the Justice League operating at full capacity, Batman.  I’m sure you’ll understand the _practical_ reasons for its occurrence.”

“I’ll be done—“

“I know,” Superman called out cheerfully as he turned to fly away.  “You run a tight ship, Batman.  If you’re not back by your usual time, I’ll just come and lend you a hand.”

Looking back, he grinned amusedly at Batman’s scowl.  “Memorizing heartbeats is _so_ useful sometimes, really.  I’m glad I’ve known you so long—in a professional capacity only, of course.”

Batman could only stare with a mixture of confusion and aggravation as the alien sped off in the direction of Metropolis.  He had a feeling he wasn’t going to enjoy their conversation tonight at all.

 

* * *

 

The Batmobile sped into the cave at 03:27:15, about 3.54 minutes off the average return time as calculated by the Batcomputer.  The system’s calm announcement of this fact as Batman parked annoyed him more than he cared to admit.  As he climbed out of the car, he spotted Superman leaning casually against the computer desk, sipping coffee out of an “I <3 Gotham” mug. 

 _Kent probably rummaged through Alfred’s pantry for that,_ Bruce thought,simultaneously pleased and annoyed that Clark felt comfortable enough to do so.

_The whole point of this conversation is to end this pseudo-friendship, Bruce.  Get it together._

Superman looked disturbingly like Clark Kent, almost as if the mild-mannered reporter was playing dress up in Superman’s tights.  The man’s bright blue eyes were staring at him appraisingly, looking as if he were sizing him up for an interview. 

The situation definitely needed to be brought back under control.

“How nice to see you waited up for me, Superman.  Do you always stay up like a mother hen waiting for your colleagues?” he stated, giving the slightest edge to the final word.

“Only when I feel like they could use the company,” Superman responded genially.  He winked— _winked!_ —at Batman, before taking another sip of coffee, his eyes following Bruce as he made his way toward the console.

“I’m guessing patrol went alright, despite the loss of a Batplane?”

Choosing to ignore the question, Bruce sat in front of the monitor to make his nightly report.  As he opened the documentation window, he internally measured which approach would be best to break Clark’s will in pursuing this ill-conceived friendship.  Openness was most likely best, but he didn’t fully trust himself to refrain from somehow voicing his own complicated thoughts on the subject.  The thoughts that had caused him to muck up the weekly Batplane diagnostics and blow himself half to hell. 

The thoughts that caused him to lay awake at night, thinking about what it might be like to spend a day with Clark as a friend.

No matter, the risk was worth the reward.  The sooner he could get Clark off his back, the sooner he could get back to an acceptable level of focus. 

Having set the plan of course, he turned his attention back to the report.  There was no use in worrying over the outcome, and there was plenty of work that needed doing without the added internal conflict.

However, after a few moments of typing, in which Clark made no motion to either sit or walk away, Bruce found he needed to address the alien for his own sanity.  He ground out, “You don’t mind if I spend a few more minutes on this report, do you?  You know, my mental capacity is only _human_ ; if I don’t get it down now, it’ll never be up to standard.”

Clark rolled his eyes at the statement.  “Really, Bruce.  I think you’ve pulled the alien card on me enough times; we both know what you’re really saying.”  He paused as Bruce glared at him through the cowl.  Tiring of the staring competition after a few seconds, he broke eye contact to glance around the cave. 

“If you need me to wait, I can wait.  This conversation is important.  I can entertain myself by looking around the cave some more, maybe find some more entrances you haven’t told me about—“

“Okay!” Bruce cut him off.  “Let’s get this over with.  What do you want—“ he stopped suddenly to stare at Clark, who had started making an impatient gesture with his hands.  It looked almost as if he was taking off an invisible helmet.

“Clark.  What are you doing?  I thought you wanted to talk,” he growled.

Clark looked at him with faint amusement.  “I want to talk to _Bruce Wayne_ , not Batman.  Come on, cowl off,” he grinned unrepentantly.

Bruce looked at him for a second, giving a carefully blank stare that somehow still conveyed annoyance.  Slowly, he removed the cowl, watching Clark steadily as he let it fall behind his back.

“Alright.  Bruce Wayne speaking, _Superman_ ,” he said with steely calm.  The cowl had left faint indentation marks on his cheeks, and his hair was damp with sweat.  The image brought Clark swiftly back to the night of the Elliott Building.

“So, ah, what ended up happening with your big secret mission?” Clark blurted before he could help himself. 

_Why did I ask that?  I’m wasting time talking to Bruce about a mission when we should be talking about our partnership. Way to go, Clark._

Just as Clark was about to hurriedly issue an apology and return to the subject at hand, he realized that Bruce had already begun answering his question.

“—nothing much left to do.  Joker’s gone underground, and either no one knows where he is or no one’s talking.  The only option at this moment is to wait for a new…development.”  He looked disgusted at the thought. 

After a couple of seconds, in which he seemed to be contemplating how to force one of these developments to occur, he turned to look at Clark, his gaze sharpening.  Bruce’s intensity was almost overwhelming, and at that moment, Clark felt oddly excited at the thought that all of Batman’s attention was focused on him.  However, just as quickly as the intensity had come, it faded, only to be replaced by a hesitant look that bordered on awkward.  After a few painful seconds, Bruce began to speak.

“Superman…Clark.  I really do appreciate the times we’ve worked together; the world would not be the place it is today without you.  You give people…a great deal of hope.  I’m not good at expressing my sentiments, but I want you to know that I do recognize the good you have done.”  He paused again, eyes darting around the room before settling on Clark, who was staring back at him in shell shocked amazement.  Sensing Clark’s surprise, he decided to barrel through the rest of his strategy to ensure full success.

“The brightness you have, Clark.  It’s…good for the world.  It’s good for Bruce Wayne.”  He looked cautiously at Clark, a look of regret passing over his face in light of the grin steadily growing on Clark’s face.  He sighed before continuing.

“But Clark, it’s not good for Batman.  Batman has to be…more.  Batman can’t have friends, and he won’t have them.  There is the mission, there is Gotham, and there is the promise I made to my parents, the promise that defines it all.” 

Clark looked back at him somberly, his grin fading into a thin line of consternation.  Bruce sighed impatiently at the sight.  He was getting entirely too emotional about this conversation.  It was only the means to an end; there was no reason to start bringing feeling into it. 

“You know all this Clark, I know you do; I don’t need to repeat it.  You know it better than anyone because you know _me_ better than anyone.  But you don’t know what it’s like to live it; you don’t understand the compulsion.  Batman isn’t a mask for Bruce Wayne; Bruce Wayne is subsumed by Batman.  And Batman’s voice is the only voice that matters.” 

Bruce looked at Clark searchingly, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.  He paused before continuing, his voice sounding almost pleading in the blistering silence of the cave, “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, Clark?  I don’t know how to say it any better than this.” 

Bruce relaxed his fists and leaned back in the monitor chair, closing his eyes as he waited for the emotion to flow out from his body to be replaced by his normal self-resolve.  Despite the constant internal monologue he had kept as a means to deter himself from falling too deeply into his feelings, he was having a hard time finding footing after his confession.  All of the tell-tale “Superman-signs” were on fire: his heart was racing, his face felt flushed and warm, and his breathing rate was well above normal.

Thinking that this must mean his part remarkably well-played, Bruce opened his eyes and was surprised to see Clark’s grimness replaced by warmth, his eyes shining brightly under the fluorescent lights hanging above the Batcomputer.  Something in his calculation of how to end this friendship idea had obviously gone awry.  Before he could change tactics, however, Clark had already begun to speak. 

“Oh, Bruce.  You feel so much.  It’s why I love you,”  Bruce gaped at Clark, so taken off guard by the statement that he could no longer remember what retort he had planned to diffuse a situation that had clearly gotten out of control.  Emboldened by his speechlessness, Clark continued.

“Underneath all of this—“ he spread his arms gently, unfolding them outwards towards the cave, which always seemed so small whenever Clark was in it, “you hold so much love.  You’re right; I don’t completely understand you—Batman, Bruce Wayne, _especially_ Brucie—but I don’t need to.  I know as much about you as I need to when I see the things that you do for this world, for your city, for your kids and Alfred.”

Clark smiled softly at Bruce, taking in his features.  He sat there so stiffly, unable to acknowledge his own compassion brimming just beneath the surface for anyone who knew where to look.  It was agonizingly beautiful.  The fact that Bruce wasn’t walking away, wasn’t objecting, meant something, and Clark wasn’t going to let the moment go to waste.

“That _knowing_ , Bruce, it’s what I want more than anything in life.  I don’t need people to _understand_ Clark Kent and Kal-El and all the “mes” that come in-between.  I just want them to see me and _know_ ; I want them to know me like you know me.  Our friendship is already so strong, Bruce, because all of your yous know all of my mes.  Batman may deny it—“  Bruce flinched instinctively at Clark’s authoritative assessment of Batman, but kept still and silent, his eyes boring into Clark’s, his ears hanging off every word, “—but deep down you know that’s because Batman is terrified of acknowledging what he’s afraid to lose.”

“Clark—Superman—You don’t know a thing about what Batman fears.  You can’t—“ Bruce cut off abruptly, his voice clouded with some undefinable emotion.  The situation had definitely spiraled out of control.  He needed to shut this down immediately. 

Before he could continue, however, Clark quickly cut in, his heart racing.  He was so close, so close to everything.

“No, Bruce.  You were right before; I know you better than anyone else knows you.  I’ve fought beside you for over six years.  I know what happens to Batman when he loses the things he loves.  But denying that you love other people doesn’t make their loss hurt any less.”  He breathed deeply, his breath shaking with the knowledge of what he was asking Batman to do, the floodgate to come.

“I’m asking you to give our friendship a chance, for both of us.”

Silence filled the cave, its heavy presence a weight on Bruce’s shoulders as he glanced away from Clark’s open face to gain a foothold on his thoughts.  Everything Clark wanted, everything he said…it was like it had been ripped from the recesses of his own mind.  Between his own unintentionally candid forthrightness and Clark’s response, he was drowning in the truth of it and he couldn’t find a piece of sterilized darkness to sink back into.  He glanced up at Superman, hoping to ground himself in the moment, but found him transformed into something else entirely.

Clark was almost glowing in the light, radiating heat and everything that Bruce spent so many nights simultaneously searching for and running from.  Clark was truth, his words made into physical being.  It was intoxicating, and before he could stop himself, he heard himself saying, “Clark…I can’t promise I won’t ruin this.”

Clark beamed at him, his eyes twinkling as he brought his hands to rest on Bruce’s shoulders, his large palms burning through layers of Kevlar, holding Bruce steady in the face of his blinding brightness.  In that beautiful moment, Bruce knew he had lost something very important, something irreparable.  He pushed the panic back into himself, basking in Clark’s glow. 

“You couldn’t Bruce.  Not this.”

Without warning, he pulled Bruce into a quick hug, muttering something incomprehensible in his ear, his warm breath tickling against his skin.  Bruce shivered at the sensation, unable to pull away, an odd sort of anxiety settling somewhere in his gut.  As Clark drew back, he shot Bruce another quick grin, so small and yet so brilliant that it made Bruce’s stomach leap, the anxiety warming into something unnameable and dangerous.

“I’ll see you this Monday at monitor duty, then?  We can talk about our first friendship outing,” Clark said teasingly, seemingly unaware and unaffected by Bruce’s internal crisis.

Bruce faintly heard himself respond with a quick, “Yes, fine,” still lost in his own emotional confusion.  After a moment, he realized Clark had gone, leaving nothing in his wake but a half empty cup of coffee.

Without thinking, Bruce grabbed it and placed his lips to the spot from where Clark had been drinking, almost as if he could consume the remnants of his smile.


	3. so you might say to yourself: i have recently noticed/how superbly situated the empire state building is/how it looms up suddenly behind cemeteries and rivers/so far away you could touch it

Batman would never admit to being nervous.  Although he most certainly felt so on occasion, nervousness, like anxiety or apprehension, was an emotion only suitable when it could be used positively.  As such, it needed to be repressed any time it happened to arise in conjunction with thinking about Superman.

Despite this long-ago decided response to what he deemed detrimental emotional distraction, Bruce was finding it more and more difficult to ignore the sweat gathering in his palms, making his hands slippery and itchy as they fumbled with the monitor controls on the Watchtower.

Superman would be arriving in approximately 12 minutes and 32 seconds.  That meant that Bruce had 12 minutes and 31 seconds to get this feeling under control.

He pulled off his sweat-soaked gloves and cowl, hung them over one of the monitor room chairs, and began performing basic katas to relax his body and mind.  As he started to sweat from the exertion, he stripped off his suit top, moving to replace it with a white T-shirt he kept stored in one of the monitor room cabinets.  Bruce usually tried to maintain an aura of distance and professionalism at all times when on the Watchtower, but the knowledge that no one would be entering the room other than Clark allowed him a degree of comfort that he would have not otherwise allowed himself to indulge in.

As if he could somehow sense Bruce’s thoughts returning to him, the Kryptonian burst in the door right as Bruce slung the T-shirt over his shoulders.

“Oh!” Clark exclaimed, face coloring slightly as he glanced down at Bruce’s exposed chest.  “Hey, Bruce.  I didn’t mean to startle you; I just came to see if you wanted to hang out a bit before monitor duty.”  He looked studiously over Bruce’s left shoulder, almost if he were too embarrassed to meet his eyes.  “That is, if you’re not busy…” he trailed off.

Bruce glared at the man as he finished sliding the shirt over his chest.  Of all the impossible—hadn’t it been Clark who had intimated just a week ago that he wanted to spend more time together?  He wasn’t going to get duped into becoming his friend only to be avoided a few days later. 

“Clark.  You can stay.  You’ll have to come back in here in about six minutes anyway.”  He paused before continuing, “Besides, I thought this was our scheduled time to…’hang out.’”  He looked uneasily at Clark, who suddenly burst out into laughter.

“Bruce,” he gasped, “it wasn’t that literal of an invitation.”  At Bruce’s wary expression, he sobered up, continuing, “But it _can_ be…if you want it to.”  He beamed at the other man as he sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the room.  He patted the ground next to him invitingly, smiling as Bruce awkwardly made his way down to sit next to him.

“So!  How’s life in Gotham?  Haven’t seen Dick in a while,” Clark said cheerily while making himself comfortable, leaning slightly into Bruce’s side as he lifted his cape up from under his body.  Keenly aware of the warm body leaning against him, Bruce thought, as he often had lately, that sometimes it seemed like Clark spent his days just looking for ways to rattle him.  He decided to ignore the responding leap in his stomach by answering the question.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?  Dick always enjoys spending time with Superman,” he countered.

Clark shifted next to him and rolled his eyes.  “Because I’m asking _you_ , Bruce.  I’m interested in hearing about how you think he’s doing.”

Bruce paused before grunting in acquiescence.  He had agreed to be friendly with Superman, after all.  After a few seconds of awkward silence, he woodenly related his last conversation with Dick while staring fixedly at the opposite wall.  The exchange hadn’t been anything of note and he found himself at a loss after calling the boy’s latest solved case, “an admirable display of detective work.”

Suddenly feeling foolish for speaking for so long on the subject, he stopped abruptly and glanced at Superman, only to see him looking like the cat that ate the canary.  It was an unsurprisingly infuriating expression.

“Bruce, that’s great.  That’s really, really great.  I’m glad to hear that you and Dick are getting along,” he said, failing spectacularly at containing the grin steadily growing on his face even as Bruce’s grew into an increasingly deeper frown.

“I think that’s the most I’ve heard you talk in a ten minute span that didn’t involve tactical strategy,” he remarked idly as he bumped his outstretched legs against Bruce’s.  “Too bad we’ve got to get on monitor duty; thought maybe I’d get a full thirty minutes out of you.” 

He half stood, half floated upward, looking so fluid and natural that Bruce wondered fleetingly how no one seemed to notice how extraordinary the man was.  Clark just had this way about him, so graceful it was inhuman; yet somehow he still carried such a sense of care and approachability.  It was a trait Bruce never used himself; neither Bruce Wayne nor Batman was meant to be approachable.

Bruce found himself drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

He shook his head before rising himself, reaching for his suit as he made his way to the monitor.  Before he could slide on the clammy gloves, Clark called out, “Why don’t you stay business casual, Bruce?  I promise I won’t tell anybody,” as he settled into a monitor chair.

Bruce paused, uncertain, before deliberately turning to sit in the chair next to Clark, feeling oddly exposed as he placed his hands on the keyboard.  Without warning, Clark scooted close to him, his chair squeaking loudly before clunking against Bruce’s own and coming to an abrupt stop.  He looked at Bruce’s bare hands briefly and then peered up at his face, eyes mischievous.

“Do you feel rebellious?” he asked teasingly.

 _Among other things_ , Bruce thought before he could stop himself.  Clark’s presence was intoxicatingly suffocating; he was invading his space as he did everything of Bruce’s, and just like every other time, Bruce found that he had unconsciously let him in.  He huffed in frustration and sharply pulled back to as comfortable a distance as he could manage.

Clark didn’t seem to notice, clapping his hand amiably over Bruce’s shoulder for one horrible glorious second before pulling away at the sound of urgent beeping from the monitor.

“An uprising in South America,” he muttered as he scanned the screen.  “Great…I knew this would happen after the latest land disputes in the Amazon.”  He checked the schedule before continuing, “Diana and J’onn should be able to cover it.”

Superman hit a few buttons and spoke briefly into the comm-link, his voice laced with concern.  Bruce contemplated Clark’s body language as he spoke, taking in the tenseness masked with a thinly composed veneer.  He was so transparent, yet in their last few interactions Bruce had found it increasingly difficult to understand him.  He absently wondered if Clark had some personal stake in what was going on in South America.  He hadn’t seen him cover it in any of his articles for the Planet—

 _Oh God, Bruce, you’ve actually read every_ Daily Planet _article Clark Kent has ever written_ , he thought, as his eyes widened in mortification.

Choosing that exact moment to notice Bruce watching him, Clark nodded briskly, eyes alight as he detailed the situation to Diana.  His body language radiated confidence as he spoke; his voice a clear, reassuring tenor.  Everything about the man somehow made the world feel safer when he was around.  The thought didn’t make Bruce feel better in the slightest.

After ending the connection, Clark returned to his chair, sliding back to Bruce’s side of the monitor.  “Now Bruce, you never really answered my question,” he said as their shoulders bumped soundly against one another.  Bruce looked at him in confusion, still blindsided by his own thoughts, and Clark grinned cheekily.  He really was insufferable.

“Be honest, Mr. Wayne,” Clark singsonged as he fluttered his eyes comically, “how does it feel to go gloveless on the Watchtower?”

At Bruce’s responding snort, Clark leaned easily against him, laughing heartily.  The boom of his voice combined with the solid pressure of his form caused Bruce to stiffen before forcing himself to relax.  There was no reason to be concerned, he told himself as he began to rapidly drum his fingers on the console; this was nothing more than a casual gesture of friendship.  His own studies in understanding the human mind had taught that loneliness had a tendency to make people read into even the most innocent actions.

Of course, that implied that he was lonely, and that was patently untrue.  He had enough to keep himself busy without worrying about intimate personal relationships.  He didn’t need Clark’s kind-heartedness surrounding him like some sort of security blanket.  He didn’t need Clark at all, he thought irritably even as he continued to lean back against him.

Clark, as always, remained oblivious to his internal floundering, sighing happily as his laughter subsided.  As they sat in silence, pressed shoulder to shoulder, Bruce found himself repeating an inner mantra that consisted solely of the phrase _innocent actions_ while simultaneously trying to ignore the possibility that he could be lonely.

After a few more seconds of silent mental torture, Bruce realized he couldn’t take it anymore.  Standing up swiftly, he ground out, “Clark, do you want to use this monitor?  Because I don’t see any other reason for you crowding my personal space.”

Clark looked up in surprise, his face slightly pink as he leaned precariously onto Bruce’s now-empty chair with the sudden loss of support.  “Oh!  Right, Bruce.  Hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”  He kicked off the floor smoothly and scooted back to his monitor before commenting dryly, “I forgot that you’re not really used to having people touch you that aren’t trying to kill you.”  Bruce scowled at Clark’s back, which had suddenly started shaking with laughter.

“I don’t have a problem with _people_ touching me, Kent.  I have a problem with _you_ touching me,” Bruce replied much more petulantly than he had intended.

Clark just laughed harder as he scanned the monitor.  “I know, Bruce.  Believe me, I know.  You always have a problem with people you actually like spending time with touching you.”  He paused briefly before turning back to Bruce, his teasing tone replaced by one of genuine kindness.

“You know, practicing getting used to that feeling could help you with that…if you want to get used to that, I mean,” he amended.  His face was so open and honest, Bruce couldn’t decide whether he wanted to smile or roll his eyes.  He chose to do neither.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Clark,” he replied smoothly as he sat back down.  “Let’s stick to monitor duty for now.”

Clark grinned at him before turning back to his own monitor, apparently hearing something in Bruce’s reply that he had not intended.  “As you say, Batman.”

Bruce grunted noncommittally, his eyes flicking to Clark briefly in puzzlement before settling back to analyze the South American recordings from earlier.  As he worked, he was surprised to find himself unconsciously smiling as his mind rifled through the past hour. Perhaps this friendship with Clark could work -- if kept at a certain level.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, the loud beeping of the monitor alarm suddenly went off at both stations.  As Batman pulled on his long-forgotten gloves and suit top, Superman scanned the report on-screen, his face grim.

“The Joker’s resurfaced.  We’ve got to go, Bruce.”  He drew a deep breath before continuing cautiously.

“He’s got Nightwing.”

* * *

Although he had seen it countless times before, it always surprised Clark how quickly the Bat could take Bruce over.  To be frank, he found it both frightening and strangely attractive.  He was also secretly amused that the Bat felt comfortable enough with Superman to fly him to Gotham, while Clark couldn’t lean on Bruce’s shoulder for thirty seconds without the man having a panic attack. 

At this moment, however, he didn’t have the mental capacity to think much about what had happened on the Watchtower.  He was too busy worrying over whether he would be able to fly Bruce back to the Cave before he stopped breathing.

The Joker had been ready for them, as Bruce surely knew he would be.  Like every other time, however, there was no way to predict just how he would prepare for their latest encounter.  Pinpointing him in an abandoned warehouse just south of the Narrows, Batman immediately ordered Superman to find Nightwing upon landing.  Reluctantly leaving Batman to deal with the madman on his own, he took to the sky to scan the building, eventually spotting Dick on the third floor.  He had been tied up but otherwise unharmed; an old staple of his Robin life, he had joked as Superman cut him loose. 

Of course, dealing with Bruce alone was the Joker’s exact intention.  By the time Nightwing and Superman had made their way down to the first level, Batman was trapped in a locked room, surrounded by some unknown poisonous gas, sickly green and thick as it emanated from the crack under the door.

Upon tearing the door open, Superman found Batman curled up on the floor, the rebreather between his lips obviously failing to keep the gas from affecting him.  Lifting the man over his shoulder, Clark set out a safe distance from the room before depositing him gently on the ground.  Although still conscious, Bruce was obviously too incapacitated to continue, struggling just to stay seated upright as he raspingly informed them of Joker’s probable whereabouts.

Despite his precarious condition, they raced off after the villain on Bruce’s very forceful orders, leaving him propped up against the wall by the entrance to the warehouse.  Joker was surprisingly easy to capture; judging by his manic screeching, apparently Harley Quinn was to blame for being too dense to pack the correct gag gifts for this particular enterprise.  Superman did not even pretend to understand what that meant, although Nightwing had rolled his eyes and muttered something about Joker being, “on top of everything else, a sexist jerk.”

After making sure the man was secure and ready for the GCPD, Superman returned to find Batman sprawled out unconscious on the floor, a used antidote syringe lying in the palm of his right hand as he wheezed futilely.  With no other options at hand, he picked him up and began flying toward the manor, thinking once again about their meeting at the Elliott Building only a few weeks before.  This time, though, Bruce hadn’t woken up halfway through the flight, snarky and brilliant and alive.  Instead, there was only the sound of rattling breath and the feel of cold flesh.

As Superman landed in the Cave, Alfred was ready and waiting, having been briefed over comm-link by Nightwing, who had stayed behind to monitor the Joker situation.  Clark laid Bruce down gently on the medbay before moving out of the way of Alfred’s waiting hands.  The butler gently pulled off the cowl, gloves, and suit top before going into a rapid, yet precise flurry of medical action, intubating Bruce within minutes.  Clark winced at how wrong the uniform pieces looked scattered halfhazardly on the floor in comparison to their meticulously placed positions on the monitor room chair just a few hours before.

Within seconds, Bruce was breathing steadily and out of immediate danger.  Alfred set to work drawing blood before setting the vial in a device Clark could only assume was for poison diagnosis, his body visibly deflating as the adrenaline of the moment seeped out of him.

After ensuring that the device was working properly, Alfred grabbed a blanket from a hidden compartment in the medbay and tucked it around his charge.  The old, yet obviously well-cared for blanket seemed out of place in the sterile environment; it was a faded light blue with Bruce’s name hand-sewn in the bottom right corner with gold thread.  Clark wondered briefly if Martha Wayne had made it.  He imagined her picking out just the right shade of blue to match young Bruce’s eyes, wandering through aisles of fabric as gracefully as Bruce always carried himself, thinking of nothing but sheltering her only child.  He wondered what she would have thought about the blanket being used for this purpose.

Alfred’s strong and clear voice suddenly rang out, bringing Clark out of his reverie.  “Master Clark, you are aware of how much I appreciate what you do for Master Bruce.  Will you stay with him for a moment while I inform the family of Batman’s current status?”

“Of course, Alfred,” Clark replied, and Alfred nodded back swiftly before heading to the Batcomputer.

Clark brought a chair to Bruce’s side, placing his hand carefully on the limp one poking out from beneath the blanket.  He placed his thumb on Bruce’s inner wrist, overcome with the desire to feel Bruce’s heartbeat coursing through his veins, to remind him of the resilient life stubbornly radiating from too-pale skin.  He rubbed absently in soft circles as he sat and waited for Alfred to return, his mind blank and tired.

After a few short minutes, Alfred made his way back to the medbay, his steps brisk and calculated.  He leaned over to check on the poison diagnostics, humming in approval upon seeing the results.

“It seems as if this is merely a variation of an unusual compound Master Bruce has been exposed to before,” he stated calmly.  Clark felt his shoulders sag as he sighed in relief.

Alfred drew the antidote from a compartment, and injected it cleanly into the forearm not covered by Clark’s protective figure.  As he placed cotton and a bandage on Bruce’s skin, he looked sympathetically across the man’s prone body at Superman.

“It will take another thirty minutes or so for the antidote to work its way into Master Bruce’s system, and in the meantime, I could use a cup of tea,” he said with his usual sense of decorum as he straightened.  He was as inscrutable as ever, but Clark sensed that there was something he was missing.

“I am confident that Master Bruce will do well in your company, sir,” he continued as he headed for the Cave’s stairs without waiting for a reply.  After a moment of confused contemplation, Clark shrugged and turned back to Bruce, oddly calm in his toxic-induced slumber.  He seemed so young with the normal lines of worry, frustration, and anger smoothed out of his features.  He looked as Clark imagined Bruce would have looked had he never needed to become Batman; even Brucie never looked so content.

But, Clark realized abruptly, Bruce _had_ looked almost this content just hours earlier on the Watchtower, in those few short minutes before the alarm had gone off.  In that comfortable silence, Bruce had almost seemed _happy_.

Clark let his mind wander over that moment; in retrospect, it had been surreal.  He had been teasing, of course, as Superman had always felt it his duty to do to the inscrutable Batman.  Who else would dare?  This last encounter, though, was different somehow.  He hadn’t been any more pushy than usual, but their conversation had become charged with an undeniable sense of possibility for the first time.  With everything that had just happened, Clark hadn’t had time to think about what it had all meant until now.

In the last six years, he had made himself available to Batman at any time and any cost; he had forced his way into Bruce’s life, breaking barriers without being completely aware of what he was doing and now – the consequence was what?  What did this all mean?

He looked back down at Bruce, so young and at ease, and was overwhelmed by the desire to share in this rare state of being.  Careful of the medical equipment around him, Clark leaned close to Bruce, allowing his cheek to brush up against the man’s stubble as he felt his strong chest rise and fall beneath him.  He slowed his breathing to match Bruce’s rhythm, allowing himself to be enveloped in the man’s presence as he thought about their last few encounters.  Bringing his other hand up to stroke dark sweat-soaked hair, he reflected on the fights and the conversations, the tumbling and the flying, letting every moment wash over him as he molded himself to Bruce.

After a time, somewhere outside of himself he heard a contented sigh, and was surprised to feel Bruce pushing his cheek flush against him.  He pulled back in surprise, taking in Bruce’s closed eyes and sleepy grin.  He was so temptingly close and so beautifully open that before he could stop himself, before he could _think_ , he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the corner of Bruce’s mouth.

Suddenly and without warning, he felt a rough yank to the chest of his uniform as a hand forcefully clapped over his back, driving him downward.  His nose hit the medbay as he crashed against it, medical utensils flying onto the floor as a furious voice snarled in his ear:

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”


	4. part of me fears that some moron is already plotting/to tear down the empire state building and replace it/with a block of staten island mother/daughter houses

Clark felt the blood drain from his face.  Stiffly, he straightened out of Bruce's grasp, eyes screwed shut in horrified embarrassment.  
  
"Bruce--I don't--" he faltered as he opened his eyes.  Only then did he realize Bruce's fingers twisted white-knuckled in his uniform. Looking up reluctantly, he was surprised to see Bruce wasn't furious.  He had a look on his face that much resembled Brucie at his most dazed and confused but was painfully different because it was so genuine.  He seemed just as unaware of his hand on Clark's chest, almost using the connection as a lifeline to keep him upright.  He swayed forward slightly and squinted at the dark recesses of the cave as if it were the ultimate clue to a particularly difficult mystery.  After a moment of awkward silence, he spoke.  
  
"Well, Clark," he said in a detached falsetto, "I think perhaps it's time I headed up to the manor.  I believe Alfred is waiting for me."  
  
Clark blinked.  
  
When Bruce made no effort of letting him go, he cleared his throat, "Ah--Bruce.  You don't want to...talk about this?" he asked, silently cursing himself for sounding so utterly, stereotypically Clark Kent.  
  
Bruce continued to stare off into the distance as he replied absently, "About what?  You were just checking my breathing rate and got a bit too close is all.  I was probably just getting up when you leaned in," he shrugged.  "I'm terribly sorry I overreacted."  He fidgeted slightly on the medbay, his fingers tightening in Clark's uniform.  
  
“You’re sorry?” said Clark, who had been expecting a different response entirely.  He decided to run with it; at the moment he was too mortified and bewildered to think of any other option.  
  
"Right, of course.”  He gave him one last searching look. “I guess I'll see you around then?"  Bruce nodded vaguely in affirmation, determinedly still looking away.  
  
"Great,” Clark said in a tone that was so falsely bright it made him wince.  “Uh, if you could just let me go, I'll be on my way," he said as he gently tapped Bruce's bare wrist -- and at that he jumped almost clear off the medbay.  In the process, he let go of the material as if burned, letting his arm fall lax at his side.  Bruce’s previously clouded eyes looked both cutting and severe as he turned to Clark full-on.  
  
"Clark," he ground out, releasing lips that were pursed so tightly they were turning white. "Get out of my cave."  
  
Clark took off without a backward glance, a mixture of apprehension and relief flooding through him as he swung out of one of the cave’s tunnels into the crisp Gotham air.  
  
A few seconds after Clark's awkward exit, Bruce called out to the darkness, "You can come out now."  He muttered as he rose, "Not like you already didn't see enough."  
  
A slight shuffle, and then-- "Gee Boss, I never knew just what you meant before when you said you were going 'off-planet' with Superman." Dick's voice bounced off the cave walls, his arms raised in the motion of air quotes as he stepped into the light.  He looked remarkably well considering the events of the night, which, if Bruce was honest, Dick always tended to.  There were more reasons for his popularity among the community than his charismatic personality.  Thankfully, he’d never modeled himself after his mentor in that department.  
  
After completing a brief visual assessment of his status, Bruce directed his best glare at his oldest son but the effect was slightly dimmed by the high color on his cheeks.  
  
Dick stared at him open-mouthed for a second before recovering with an ungraceful snort.  
  
"Seriously, Bruce?  You've said worse to old society women at a Gotham gala."  He paused thoughtfully before continuing, "Of course, I guess the things you say as Brucie aren't always," he stopped and glanced away before soldiering on, "true?" Upon looking back, Bruce had gone from looking amusingly flustered to downright miserable, and Dick's sentence had faded away at the realization.  
  
Eyes darting to the Batcomputer console, Dick hurriedly changed the subject, "So, hey!  Looks like you upgraded ol' Bee-cee!  Remember back in the day when you had just that one tiny screen, no color, took at _least_ ten minutes to boot up--"  
  
"Dick." Bruce cut in sharply.  "We can discuss what you saw.  I know that you’ve always been…fond…of Superman, and I want to set the record straight."  His voice was unwaveringly calm, but his face still showed some special kind of melancholy that was reserved for any time he felt forced to talk about anything regarding his personal life to his sons.  It almost made Dick take pity on him.  
  
"Look, Bruce, all I saw was a guy that cares about you,” he replied.  “Nothing about that is going to make me like Clark less."  He leveled Bruce with a look before continuing, "But, if you want to talk about it, I’d be willing to help you out.  You’ve never been stellar in the relationship department, let's be honest," he said hastily.  
  
Bruce raised an eyebrow before motioning for him to continue, but with the permission given, Dick found himself becoming flustered at the idea of seriously giving _Batman_ relationship advice.  
  
"It's just...I know he was a bit forward--"  
  
Bruce cut in again, "He kissed me while I was sleeping, Dick.  That could be considered sexual harassment."  
  
"Do you have sexual harassment policies for the League?  I've always wondered with Ollie and--" Dick stopped abruptly at Bruce's exasperated look.  
  
"Of course you do, you're Batman,” he laughed.  “But seriously, did you feel harassed?  I mean," he said as he began to peel off his domino mask, "I know I wasn't all that close, but you looked the opposite of harassed from my angle."  He set the mask on the table by the medbay and looked up at his mentor.  The pathetic look from earlier had resettled on Bruce's features with an added layer of uncertainty that made Dick nervous.  Batman was never uncertain about anything.  
  
"Bruce?  Are you alright?" he asked worriedly.  
  
Bruce closed his eyes and took a deep breath before responding, "I think this entire situation has gotten out of hand."  He rubbed at the corner of his mouth distractedly, frown lines deepening. "In fact, I know it has.  Having friendly relations with any member of the League is disruptive and I never should have opened that door."  
  
He stepped down from the medbay and began to pick up his discarded uniform pieces off the floor.  After a moment in which Dick had made no comment, Bruce felt compelled to continue, "Clark is special to me, Dick.  Just like you, and Barbara, and the rest of the family.  I'm not cold-hearted.  I have people I care about, and Clark is one of them.  But he's not...that." He paused and looked sadly at the ceiling, "I don't think that will ever exist in this home again."  
  
Dick surprised him by sighing loudly in annoyance.  "Bruce, quit being an idiot.  You can't just stop being Clark's friend."  He began clearing the medical utensils that remained on the medbay.  "But, if you don't think he can be what he wants to be, you need to make that clear.  You still have to work together; ‘off-planet,’ even," he grinned, twirling a scalpel between his fingers.  Bruce’s only response was a light cough.  
  
After placing the utensils away he turned back to Bruce, who had begun making his way to the showers.  "If I can give one more piece of advice?  You need to make it clear to yourself what you want, too.  Don't blow it on being too smart and broody for your own good."  He reached forward and clapped Bruce on the back before heading toward the vehicle hangar.  
  
Halfway there, Bruce called out to him.  "Dick, you should stay here tonight,” he said.  “You need to input a full report on tonight’s incident into, uh, ‘Bee-Cee.’”  He cleared his throat. “You also know how I feel about keeping yourself monitored after a Joker encounter."  
  
Dick stopped and turned, his smile returning wide and bright.  "Sure thing, Boss." As he bounded past Bruce on his way to the showers he said happily, "Holy sentimental moment, Batman, I didn't know you had the emotional range!"  
  
Bruce grimaced as he followed him, deadpanning, "If you're resorting to ‘holy Batman’ lines, I may have to rescind my invitation."  Dick burst into laughter as the two disappeared into the darkness, the cave silent in their wake.

* * *

Hours after changing and enjoying a light snack with an energetic Dick and a pleased, yet confused Alfred, Bruce found himself unable to fall asleep.  He angrily pounded his pillow before flopping onto his stomach, Dick’s words still ringing in his ears.  _You need to make it clear to yourself what you want, too.  Don’t blow it on being too smart and broody for your own good_.

The problem, Bruce thought in irritation, was that he didn’t know what he wanted.  Everything had escalated so quickly that he was still reeling from the realization that Clark could want him.

Life had been easier when he only had to deal with Joker gas.

For the umpteenth time since he’d laid down for the night, he recounted the past hour.  Clark’s warmth huddled over him, his breath a humid gust over his ear.  He had been half-awake throughout, but somehow he had known that it had been Clark watching over him.

And then—the kiss.  Bruce had been kissed by more people than he could count and, to be frank, Clark’s technical application left much to be desired.  The sincerity of it, though, had been devastatingly effective.  Even his most passionate kisses with Selina had held an underlying sense of the game beneath them.  For Clark, though, what you saw (or felt, in this case) was exactly what you got, and there had been a hell of a lot of feeling behind that chaste press to the corner of his mouth.

Bruce rolled onto his back and threw his arm over his eyes when he thought about his own reaction to the kiss.  He had snuggled up to the man like a damn pet.  There was a reason he hated being caught sleeping or dreaming unaware.  He didn’t even want to think about how vulnerable he looked in that moment.

Turning again impatiently to his side, he considered what Clark was doing right now.  _Probably berating himself like an idiot_ , he thought.  His approach had been ill-conceived at best, and Bruce was convinced Clark wasn’t going to be able to bounce back from this easily.  Dick was right; he needed to talk to the man, and soon.  Tomorrow, if possible. 

And then, maybe he could spend a moment in his presence, just a moment, to think about what this could be.  He closed his eyes and sighed.  The kiss had been so _nice_ , and if it had continued—if Bruce hadn’t felt Dick’s wide eyes on him from the darkness and the fear of his own self-awareness—what would it have become?  Bruce shook his head as he groaned.  He was definitely in for a different sort of dream tonight.

Shaking off the direction his mind wanted to take, he focused on the task at hand.  For six years, he'd tried to keep Clark at arm's length but the man had managed to find a way through.  Had Bruce subconsciously let him do so?  How long had this been building?

"What do I want?" Bruce whispered to the ceiling desperately after flipping onto his back, his legs now hopelessly twisted in the sheets.

He thought back to the last few weeks; the warmth of Clark's body next to him, the relief and comfort he felt in his presence.  The overwhelming desire to know just how that kiss would have continued.

He sighed and viciously mussed his hair in aggravation.  He could admit, in the dead of night and in the comfort of his own mind, that he wanted Clark. He didn't need him, but oh, how he wanted him. 

_But that’s the whole point, isn't it?_ he asked himself, realization setting in.  It wasn’t about need at all.

He turned once more onto his side, his fingers grasping tightly on the pillow cradled against him and his bottom lip caught tight between his teeth.  It was settled.

It wasn't true love, not yet.  But it could be.  _It really could be_ , he thought, and he heard his mother's tinkling laugh and saw his father's loving eyes as he settled the pearl necklace over her collarbones.

"This is what I _want_ ," Bruce declared fiercely into the dark silence of the room.  He let the memories wash over and around him, and he embraced them.  Just for one night, he let himself fall fully into their ever-ready grasp.

" _This_ is what I want," he mumbled as his eyelids drooped. The sounds of laughter and the glint of pearls grew more solid behind his eyes.  He saw his parents towering above him, shifting and merging together in love, until his father nestled him into his strong arms.  The room was welcoming and warm golden light; everything was life and nothing was death.

Bruce smiled as he turned into his pillow and fell instantly to sleep.


	5. we’ll raise the curtain fill the house start the engines/fly off into the sunrise, the spire of the empire state/the last sight on the horizon as the earth begins to curve

At about the time Bruce and Dick were discussing sexual harassment policy in the Justice League, Clark was burying his face in his pillow at his Metropolis apartment and trying desperately to forget the past hour.

He couldn't get the feel of Bruce's skin under his lips out of his mind, which in turn led to thinking about the moment Bruce had violently slammed his head into the medbay. He groaned loudly into the pillow and alternated between taking a long cold shower and locking himself away in the Fortress for the next seventy years.

After about an hour of deliberation, he drifted into restless sleep fully-clothed and with furrowed brow. In what seemed like only minutes, the early morning sun began peeking through the gap in his single bedroom window. As if on cue, Clark’s cell phone shot to life with shrill ringing and flashing lights. He shot up from the bed, hair half-plastered against his forehead. His cape had become tangled around his waist and tugged irritatingly at his neck. Pulling it off with an aggressive yank, Clark scrambled to pick the phone up off the floor and fumbled to push the call button, not bothering to check the caller ID.

"Hello?!" he said, pitching his voice in what he hoped sounded lively and awake but most likely sounded insanely chipper.

"Clark?! Where are you?" Jimmy's voice came over the line distantly, as if he were whispering into the receiver. "Perry's gonna blow a gasket if you don't get down here ASAP."

Clark glanced at his bedside clock in dismay. "Oh, geez, it's 7:30 already? Give me--" he paused and looked around wildly for a comb and a clean t-shirt, "give me five minutes, Jimmy. Can you stall him for me?" Perry was notoriously lenient about spotty attendance (for which Clark was eternally grateful), but this week was the start of the next local election cycle, which always put him on edge. Before Jimmy could reply, Clark punched the end call button as he rummaged through his laundry basket for a pair of slacks.

Within minutes he was out the door and speeding through the _Daily Planet_ ’s front offices.

“Sorry I’m late everyone; guess my alarm clock didn’t go off,” he said as he hurriedly pushed his hands over his wrinkled tie in a pathetic attempt to straighten it. Looking up when he didn’t hear a response, he took in the svelte figure of Bruce Wayne standing in the midst of the investigative reporter cadre. His colleagues were staring at him with a mix of exasperation and annoyance, except for Lois, who was furiously scanning her tablet for morning scoops. Bruce made a show of drawing his eyes up from his wristwatch before drawling, “Now, Mister Kant, I _do_ hope that you don’t own a Wayne Enterprises-manufactured alarm clock.”

When Clark just stared back at him in awe, he continued, “Well. Considering you _are_ the last person to arrive, you get the honor of working on the _very_ urgent task I’ve elected to personally oversee.” The other reporters reacted with a mixture of exhales and light chuckles, obviously glad to have dodged the bullet of spending a day with the airheaded _Planet_ owner. Bruce ignored them, dusting imaginary lint off of his forearm before looking back up, his eyes twinkling. Clark always hated when Bruce’s eyes had that look; it almost always meant that there would be something unenjoyable for its recipient on the horizon. “The task, of course, is myself,” he said lightly as he walked up and grabbed hold of Clark’s shoulder, steering him back toward the front door.

“You’ll start by taking me to lunch, Kant. A man can’t interview on an empty stomach, you know.”

Clark almost forgot to allow himself to be pulled by Bruce, causing the man to show visible strain in getting him out of the office. “Clark,” he said under his breath, “ _come on!_ ” Clark forced himself to relax and followed Bruce into the bright Metropolis sun, mind racing. He would have put money down on Bruce avoiding him like the plague for at least the next month. What the hell was he up to?

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Bruce said, his hand still resting on Clark’s shoulder. He looked remarkably and irritatingly calm. “I heard from a delightful young secretary in your—well, _my_ —office that there’s a place just up the way that has a rotating menu of dishes from around the planet. What say you?” He lifted his hand off of Clark and took off toward the nearest alley without waiting for a response. With no other option but to follow, Clark continued after him.

As soon as they fell out of view from the main street, Bruce pushed himself up against Clark, his body radiating power as he grasped Clark’s shoulders. Clark wrapped one arm around his waist and bolted up to the _Planet_ globe, cursing under his breath for every second he had to endure the proximity.

As they landed, he noticed Bruce had shed the playboy persona entirely. Clark opened his mouth to speak, but before he could form a sound Bruce untangled himself from his grasp and made his way to the ledge. “I trust you’ll let me know if Lois decides to put out a call for Superman,” he said. The breeze at this altitude ruffled his hair, making Clark distinctly aware of the fact that they had never met up here as Bruce and Clark before. In fact, he was fairly certain that Bruce had never asked Clark to fly him anywhere, much less as civilians.

“Bruce, what is this exactly?” Clark asked as Bruce sat down, his legs dangling over the edge. He paused before continuing, “If you want to talk about last night, I just want to say—“

“Don’t,” Bruce cut him off, but did not continue. He looked at the city skyline briefly before staring up at Clark. The calm from just a few moments ago had disappeared, lines of frustration and worry etching his features.

“Clark, sit down. I apologize for interrupting you during work, but we can’t leave things how they were last night.”

“Well, since you’re apologizing,” Clark said. “Wouldn’t want to miss out on this once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.” Bruce rolled his eyes as Clark made his way next to him and sat cautiously, turning to look at Bruce’s profile.

“The League needs to operate at full capacity, and despite my desire to believe that last night was a forgettable accident, we both know that it wasn’t,” Bruce said, voice cautiously neutral.

And with that start to the conversation, Clark wanted to die. Having Bruce acknowledge that he knew it wasn’t an accident was one thing, but to say that this needed to be resolved for the sake of the League was something else entirely. He skimmed his hand over the ledge, making abstract shapes as he felt the minute changes in the uneven texture. After a moment of staring at the motion, Bruce cleared his throat. “So, I can start, of course. I _did_ blackmail you to come and have lunch with me to discuss this, after all.” The corner of his lips tilted upward briefly before falling back into a grim line. “Nightwing saw everything.”

Clark felt his face flush bright red. “Oh, god,” he moaned as he gripped the ledge. “Bruce, if this conversation is supposed to make things better, it really isn’t working.”

Bruce fidgeted and pushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “He said as much. He’s always right about these sorts of things with me.”

Clark snorted. “Dick has probably had to deal with this sort of situation far too often,” he said with a smile. “I mean, you are _Bruce Wayne_.”

Bruce straightened up, his eyes blazing as he turned to look at Clark. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Just because I have to maintain a cover doesn’t mean I’m incapable of—“ He stopped abruptly and scowled at the horizon, lips tight. Clark didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just let it be.

After a few minutes of sitting in silence, the wind whistling around them, Clark spoke up. “Bruce, I’m not really sure we’re on the same wavelength here. I think it would help to, you know, come straight out with what happened and then we can just, just move on with it.”

Bruce nodded once and motioned for him to continue.

“Okay, then,” Clark said. He licked his lips and dove in, eyes cast down. “Long story short, I got wrapped up in the moment, I - _ahem_ \- kissed you, which was a monumentally bad decision,” he sighed. “I mean, you weren’t even awake! God, I am so sorry. If I could take back that moment, I would.”

Bruce stared at him blankly. Clark continued, determined to finally get everything out into the open.

“I had been trying so hard for us to become friends and I guess I realized maybe,” he paused and gave a brief hysteric bark of laughter, “maybe it could have been more. When I saw you lying there and I thought about our time on the Watchtower and how happy you were, I just…wanted to make it last.” He dropped his hand back onto the ledge, almost brushing Bruce’s own. “But I didn’t think about you, Bruce. Not really. How you’d react to something like that, and I should have known. I should have respected your distance.” He gripped the ledge more firmly as he looked down at the alley below. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Bruce. And I hope this doesn’t affect our relationship in the League.”

Bruce’s fingers twitched next to him before starting a rapid drumming. His eyes squinted against the wind and the light as if he could see Gotham on the horizon. For all Clark knew, maybe he could; sometimes it felt like Batman could do anything he set his mind to unless that thing involved emotion. He waited patiently for the letdown.

“Clark, I came to talk to you because I don’t think it was a monumentally bad decision,” Bruce said. He paused, turning to look at Clark who stared back at him in surprise. “I don’t think it was a bad decision at all.” His eyes softened as he looked at Clark but his jaw was clenched painfully tight, like he was trying to retroactively keep the words that had just surfaced from coming out of his mouth.

Clark felt at that moment like there was something he should have said in response to this revelation, but could not for the life of him think of what to do. Bruce had just admitted to wanting something with him, but it was obviously very painful for him to do so. How was Clark supposed to react to that? After a couple seconds of non-response, Bruce’s jaw relaxed and his eyes shuttered.

“Dick said I was bad at this, but until this moment, I didn’t think I was _this_ bad,” he said as he let out a similar laugh to the one Clark had given just minutes ago. He turned away, looking up at the slowly spinning globe, his fingers still tapping incessantly against the ledge. He looked about two seconds away from sprinting off the rooftop and back to Gotham. At that realization, Clark finally felt something within him snap to life. For Bruce, the admission was already an overwhelming commitment. What was stopping Clark from making the same? He scooted closer to Bruce, his hand closing firmly over stuttering fingers, making them stop their relentless movement. “I don’t mind,” he whispered. “I don’t mind that at all.”

Bruce sighed, and how could such a minute thing convey so much? He leaned his shoulder against Clark’s and it felt like a declaration of love. “Did you need to talk about this anymore, Clark? Because I can screw it up further if I need to.”

“No, Bruce, I don’t really think anymore talking is necessary,” Clark said, his hand warm and heavy around Bruce’s.

Bruce smiled briefly and turned, face so close that Clark could make out every line. He reached up and lightly pushed a loose strand of hair back behind Bruce’s ear, his thumb running across his cheek and lingering on his jaw. Most people waxed poetic about Bruce Wayne’s dreamy eyes, but for Clark the strength of the man beside him was contained in the set of his mouth. It was the only part of Batman that was open to the night and the only part still claimed by Bruce Wayne in the daylight. He circled his thumb slowly over clean-shaven skin, moving down to Bruce’s Adam’s apple, feeling him swallow slowly.

“A kiss would be nice,” Bruce said after a moment, and Clark looked back up to see his nostrils flared and eyes half-lidded in lust. “Sorry,” Clark replied. “Just enjoying the view.”

Bruce lifted his eyebrows slightly. “You’ll get another chance, I promise.” And with that, he reached behind Clark’s neck with his free hand and brought him just shy of his own lips. “Let’s try to indulge some of our other senses for a bit.”

Clark puffed out a laugh, his breath warm on Bruce’s wind-cooled skin. “I think I can live with that.”

Bruce responded with a quick brush of the lips that ended as quickly as it began. “Okay,” he said, eyes closed tightly and hand gripping Clark’s hair so fiercely that anyone else would have lost a sizeable chunk. His body thrummed with tension under Clark’s palm.

“I’m not quite sure that would be considered indulgence,” Clark replied before pressing his lips firmly to Bruce’s. He ran his tongue between the seam of his lips before sucking gently on the bottom lip that had sneered at and taunted and teased him for years. Bruce’s hand relaxed and pulled free of Clark’s hair, twitching in the air as he let out a soft grunt. His body softened under Clark’s touch as they kissed, finally losing himself to the sensation.

“Oh,” he said when they finally came up for air, and Clark grinned.

“I’d say that went better than my last attempt at seducing you,” Clark said. He was having an extremely difficult time trying to contain the broad smile forming on his face.

“I’d need more evidence to confirm that, Kent,” Bruce replied, stone-faced as always as he leaned back and ran a finger over his now-reddened lips. “I think the Fortress would provide just the right space and equipment to complete thorough analysis.” Clark smile grew impossibly larger and in a split-second he was floating just above Bruce’s level, red cape and tights fully on display. Bruce’s mouth twitched as he reached up and Clark took him easily into his arms.

“Anything you say, Batman,” Superman said as he began to lift off the ledge, the bright Metropolis sun peeking out from behind the skyscrapers in the distance. Within minutes the city lay behind them, with only light and air surrounding them and possibility on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made it to the end! Somewhere along the line the boys became so sappy so fast; I'm not really sure how that happened. Also, apparently Bruce likes to talk with lots of italics; he's very dramatic. This was my first multi-chapter fic and looking back I feel there is so much that could (should?) be changed, but I hope you guys enjoy it. Now that it's summer, I'm hoping to do a few more stories with these two :).


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